The Burning City

by Larry Niven

  "Look what I got, Prairie Dog!"

  "Fool! My brother is dead. It's not loot I want, it's blood."

  "Drink alone, then."

  "His face! His face! You said their shaman was dead!"

  "Run away!"

  They were pursued by worse than Kettle Belly's laughter.

  Some had snatched clothing that Ropewalker wagon had set out to dry. A gale wind pulled at the cloth like sails, and they ran off balance and half blind. Whandall ran after them, striking down the slowest, who fell with a scream.

  Two others turned, releasing what they carried, drawing knives as their loot flapped away like ghosts. Then one fell without a sound. The other dithered an instant, then came on alone. Whandall killed him.

  He looked around to see a whirling sling, a triumphant grin. "The moon's come out!" Carver shouted.

  His sling whirled. A bandit with a wooden chest in his arms cursed as the stone hit his back. He turned, dropping the chest. It shattered. Whandall caught up to him. Slash the leg, chop to the shoulder, run past, take another.

  "Whandall!" Kettle Belly's voice, well behind, too far behind to be any help.

  Carver laughed beside him. "Whandall! Do you know what your face is like?"

  He'd seen himself in Morth's mirror. But Carver didn't wait for an answer. "You light up! Every time ... you kill a man ... the snake lights up ... in blue fire! Just for a breath, but... it scares them out of their minds! "

  There must be magical power-manna-in murder. It was lighting up his magical tattoo. But only for an instant, and now each running man perceived Whandall in the dark behind him. A man clutching a big wood bucket with a handle turned and saw him, and shrieked. Whandall's utmost burst of speed still couldn't catch him, though his staccato scream was announcing his location all across the plain ...

  Enough. "Carver!"

  "They're getting away!"

  "Leave some to tell the tale, Carver," Whandall commanded. "Come back to the wagons."

  He had two fine new knives. He'd left his crude Lordkin knife some" where on the plain, stuck in a man's throat. Coyote spoke to him, from memory or from the shadows, not in words but in pictures, of a pack of coyotes running away to regroup and fall on a pair of pursuing dogs. He urged Carver into a run.

  Chapter 49

  Nobody slept. Conversations clustered around the wounded. There was wine. Whandall was treated as a hero, except that nobody offered him wine. He said nothing, and looked.

  Many were heroes that night, and great was the praise they received, but only the wounded were drinking wine. That actually made sense, he thought. Wine dulls pain.

  Everybody had a story. They all wanted to hear Whandall's, but they didn't want to shut up.

  "We've been counting on you, you know. We wanted to see how a harpy would fight." This from a man who remained cheerful as his wife bound up a deep slash across his back. He'd never spoken to Whandall before. "After Hickamore went off with you, we were all twitchy, waiting for the attack, wondering when it would come, why Hickamore would leave us now, why he'd taken the harpy. Thinking he must be crazy."

  "He was crazy," Whandall affirmed.

  "Yeah?"

  "Gold fever."

  "Ah." The wounded man found his train of thought. "Then the ponies all went crazy. We near jumped out of our skins. We saw Twisted Cloud come back alone, and bandits running out of the dark, and guards running ahead of them to get into position. Everyone armed was running somewhere; anyone else was looking for weapons. Twisted Cloud saw what was happening, and she ran around flapping her arms at the ponies-"

  "They were miming away from me," Twisted Cloud said, "and I thought I could steer them into the bandits. It worked, a little, but they wrecked a lot too, and I wouldn't count on their coming back." She seemed unhurt. She smiled at Whandall, a sudden bedroom smile, and he couldn't help leering back. She told Kettle Belly, "I carry Coyote's child. That's what they were afraid of."

  Fawn and Rutting Deer were tending Mountain Cat. That looked like a near miss, a wide bloody knife stroke across his ribs and chest, an inch above cutting his belly open. His arm was bleeding too. Fawn glared at Whandall (and, interestingly, Rutting Deer didn't) but Mountain Cat didn't notice.

  "You saved me," he said, "know it or not. That son of a broke-horned pony cut me and was going into his backslash. That would have opened me like a salmon. Then, out there on the desert, you pulled your knife out of some poor bastard and looked at us like a hell-blue glowing snake, and he just couldn't look away. And I did! I think I sliced up his eye. Anyway, he ran."

  Rutting Deer seemed bewildered. She caught Whandall looking and shrugged helplessly. "I never saw anything. Just you killing someone in the dark, and poor Mountain Cat fighting for us."

  "I can't see it either," Whandall told her.

  By midnight it was over. Kettle Belly's men took a tally by dim firelight and intermittent moonlight, not straying too far and never separating.

  The score was twenty dead bandits against one old man who died of a heart attack and one young boy who was out after stream water. They found him facedown in the water, his head bashed in and his bucket missing. Some rope, clothing, a few pots, one mirror, some harnesses, a couple of spears; they lost very little and got some of it back. Most agreed that it would be a while before these bandits attacked the Bison Clan again.

  "But there are other bandits," Kettle Belly said, "All along the trail." As Whandall crossed between fires, the man had moved smoothly into place beside him. "Winning this kind of fight can be really expensive. It wasn't, but it could have been."

  Whandall waited.

  "Hammer saw you and Carver running into the dark and out of sight! We thought they'd killed you!"

  "We chased them."

  "You have wagons to defend. You could get lost. They could double back around you!" Kettle Belly studied him. "It doesn't make sense to risk everything like that. We couldn't go after you, you know, and then you wouldn't be there next time.

  "Look, harpy, this is how it's supposed to work. The bandits give up trying to gel a wagon as soon as we show them some blood. Then they grab anything they can and run. Typically you'll see a couple of bandits lacing off against a wagon family, and nobody really wants a fight. The owners shout for help. A couple of neighbors come, and the bandits run away and hit some other wagon."

  Whandall began to doubt. Had he broken some law? "Kettle Belly, do we have some kind of bargain with them? A treaty?"

  "With bandits? No!"

  "Then it doesn't make sense to follow their rules. We gave them no guarantees, right? They're not holding back to keep some bargain, are they? Let's shake them up a little. They want rules? Let them come and ask for rules."

  Kettle Belly sighed. "Hickamore said bandits wouldn't know what to make of you. He was right. You're more interested in killing them than in protecting the wagons. Now you're telling me you were following a plan?"

  "Plan. Well. I did what I've been taught. The Placehold never makes half of a war."

  Whandall dreaded the moment when he must face Willow . .. but when the moment came it didn't matter.

  Hickamore's storm swept over Bison Clan. They were soaked and blinded. The rain was gone as quickly as it came, leaving them in a howling hot wind.

  Kettle Belly and Twisted Cloud drove them to work. The flood was coming just behind!

  The wagons were already on high ground, trust Kettle Belly for that, but everything had to be tied down, anchored. There was the risk that bandits would strike again under cover of the storm ....nd in the midst of all that, he and Willow could only glimpse each other at a half-blind run.

  In a moon-shrouded moment they almost ran into each other. Willow blinked, then gripped his shoulders and bellowed, "Was it the fire god?"

  "No, it was Coyote! You heard-"

  "I was afraid she might be wrong!" She was gone.

  Dawn showed the wagons on islands in a flood. Bandits would drown before they could gather anything.
It seemed safe to sleep ... and everyone posted a guard anyway.

  Iris Miller had slept. She started to complain, but Willow touched her cheek and asked, "Who else could we trust?" and Iris went.

  And they slept.

  Whandall woke near noon. Traces of breakfast remained: the rest of the

  caravan hadn't been up long. He could see several of them out on the

  damp plain finding treasure the bandits had dropped.

  Whandall had been thinking. Willow certainly knew, as the whole caravan knew, that Twisted Cloud was pregnant by Coyote where the only living man-shape was Whandall's. Whandall was prepared to spend months or years explaining to Willow that it was Willow he loved. He would be patient. He must satisfy her brothers too: not just Carver-who had fought beside him joyfully, who might be ready to accept him-but Carter too. It might take forever. So be it...

  But Twisted Cloud was pregnant by his doing, and that was another matter. Whandall had heard too many Lordkin say "possessed" and known it for a threadbare excuse. If Twisted Cloud claimed him, he must marry her.

  Two wives were rare among the Bison people.

  But while Whandall was thinking, Kettle Belly acted.

  At high noon Kettle Belly led Twisted Cloud to a table, helped her up, and joined her. Whandall saw no other signal, but conversations chopped off. Bison Clan gathered around them.

  Kettle Belly's voice rolled like a Lord's. "Twisted Cloud will bear the grandchild of our shaman and the child of Coyote himself!"

  Twisted Cloud glowed with pride.

  Willow Ropewalker stepped up beside Whandall.

  "What man is worthy of raising such a child? Coyote's son or daughter-"

  "Daughter," Twisted Cloud shouted happily.

  "-will be powerful and willful and prone to mischief. Twisted Cloud's man must control the child long enough to teach her-"

  Willow called, "Kettle Belly? Wagonmaster?"

  A ripple of discontent. Kettle Belly looked down, displeased.

  "I claim Whandall Placehold as mine."

  Whandall turned to look at her. Willow met his eyes, forcing herself.

  Kettle Belly said, "Fine," and dismissed her.

  Whandall couldn't think of an intelligent question. But if she didn't mean it, he was going to die.

  "Women talk about being courted," Willow told him carefully, "and I liked that. And you gave me a dowry so I'd have a choice. And it's been fun, Whandall," she held both of his hands now, "you courting me and not knowing how, and of course my brothers had to get used to you, but-"

  "Willow-"

  "-but I thought she might claim you! You made her pregnant!"

  "Listen, that was-"

  "So I got in first."

  Whandall couldn't stop grinning. He dared squeeze her hands, then pull

  her into his arms. They turned thus to watch the ceremony. She clung to

  him, stroked his tattoo, ran her hand down his left arm to touch the misshapen wrist bones. Then she looked at him and smiled again.

  After a long time, Whandall became aware of the rest of the world.

  What was Kettle Belly doing? Holding an auction?

  "She does not seem eager to claim me," he observed.

  "You're disappointed? Because I just-"

  "No!"

  "-just realized. You can't see your own tattoo glowing? Rutting Deer can't see it either, but anyone else must be keeping his mouth shut, because it means he doesn't have shaman's blood. You can't raise Coyote's child."

  "Oops."

  "But Orange Blossom- Hello, Carter. Did you-"

  "I heard. My shy sister. Now I suppose you never will teach us how to gather," Carter said to Whandall.

  Whandall said, "No."

  "But you can teach us how to fight."

  "You do fine."

  Stag Rampant, a young man of Leather smith Wagon, claimed Twisted Cloud. Whandall had seen the man's doubts, but they were gone now.

  She would certainly be Bison Clan's religious leader until her daughter had gained maturity, and maybe beyond. And the rustle of activity was Bison Clan gearing up to travel. Late as it was, they could still make First Pines by evening.

  Book Two

  WHANDALL

  Feathersnake

  Twenty-two years pass...

  Part One

  The Raven

  Chapter 50

  Whandall just missed the bird. He was rooting around in the back of the cart while Green Stone drove. He heard Green Stone cry out. He wriggled backward out of the luggage space.

  Whandall's second son was lean and rangy, taller than his father. He was standing precariously on the wobbling bench while the bison plodded ahead. "There! Did you see it? It was wonderful, a bird colored just like your tattoo, Father! It's behind those trees now."

  "Watch where you're driving, Stone." The trees were bare, but Whandall still saw nothing. He didn't stand up. The winter wind cut like a forest of knives.

  The Hemp Road continued north and east along the base of the low western hills. Whandall had set New Castle on one of those. Ahead was an open plain and river valley, where the Hemp Road ended.

  Whandall fished out bread and cheese for their lunch. He could see dust ahead, at the horizon or beyond. He would not see more for another hour.

  There was a fair-size town at the far end of the Hemp Road, a place for supplies and refitting, a market center for all of the caravans. Roads came together there, the coast road that led west to Great Hawk Bay, and another that wound through mountain passes north and east to valleys Whandall never expected to see.

  In midwinter Road's End was six hours' travel from the New Castle. It would be faster in summer, slower in the spring mud. Nobody would

  travel that distance twice in one day. Willow wouldn't expect him back for three or four.

  There were just under a hundred wagons in the wagon yard. Forty bore the fiery-feathered serpent that had become the sign of Whandall Feather-snake. The count was uncertain: some wagons were only components. Wheels lay everywhere.

  Mountain Cat lifted an axle into place for a Feathersnake wagon that had come home on skids. He'd have used the pulleys, but with Whandall watching, he preferred to show off his strength. "Whandall Feathersnake," he asked, "how runs your life?"

  Whandall hefted the other end of the heavy beam. "No excitement."

  "We want to thank you for the rug. Rutting Deer set it in our gossip den."

  "Good." The public area. Unspoken: he would never see it there. Though the women stayed polite, Willow did not visit Rutting Deer.

  Sometimes Whandall wondered. Had Rutting Deer gone to Mountain Cat's tent in fury because Whandall misused her name? Or was it the night of the battle, with Mountain Cat a wounded hero and the bonehead ponies all fled into the dark? Did she expect her father to bargain with unicorns for her? But Hickamore died, and still she might have married the man she was promised to; but one of the ponies had come back after the battle... .

  So she'd married Mountain Cat. Without a wagon for a dowry, they'd settled in Road's End and found what work was there.

  He could never ask. The Feathersnake family had to get along with a man who built their wheels and a woman who served their food. He said, "I just got here. What are the hot stories?"

  "Plenty of work." Mountain Cat waved around. He told what he'd heard, a Bison Clan wagon lost to bandits this year and found in pieces. Pigeon's Wagon had lost control on the long hill from High Pines to the Great Valley and disintegrated; only the metal parts had come home.

  "Did you see the bird? Rainbow colored. It circled us for hours. Looking for something, I think."

  "No."

  "Are you in a hurry for anything?"

  "No, but tell me what's finished."

  Whandall spent three days inspecting his own wagons, trading goods and tools and lore, trading stories too, as he had for a dozen years, and planning the summer's route with his firstborn son. Saber Tooth was just twenty. He'd been leading the wag
ons for three years now.

  Whandall found himself wishing he were going too.

  He had long since given up traveling to raise and guard his family, to build and maintain the New Castle, and to manage the details of trade. All

  of these matters he delighted in, hut ... if only he could he two men. Let him set Seshmarl in charge of the New Castle while Whandall ran off down the Hemp Road with the caravan for one more summer.

  They kept telling Whandall about the flame-colored bird. It had circled the sprawl of partly repaired wagons at Road's End three times, then flown off down the road. Whandall grew tired of hearing about the bird. Everyone had seen it but him.

  Past the New Castle's entry sign, a horde of younger children came running to greet him: not just his and Willow's children and grandchildren, but Millers and Ropewalkers and servants' children too. The New Castle was getting crowded, Whandall thought, and then he heard what they were calling.

  "The bird! The bird!"

  "Well, what?" He scooped up Larkfeathers, Hammer Ropewalker's girl, who named herself for the startling yellow hair she had seen in a trader's mirror. "Did I miss the cursed thing again?"

  "No, no, lookup!"

  Nothing.

  "At the sign, the sign!"

  Behind him. He'd passed right underneath it.

  The New Castle buildings were square-built, roomy but a bit drab. Willow didn't like to display their wealth. But she had let him sculpt and paint that sign, a great gaudy winged snake in all the colors of fire, and mount it high above the main gate as a signature and a warning.

  The bird was perched on its head. Against those colors it was almost invisible. But the children were shouting, "Seshmarls! Come down, Seshmarls!"

  The great bird took flight. It wheeled above them, flapping hard. Shadow-blackened with the sun behind it, it was clearly a crow. It cried, "I am Seshmarls!" in a voice that was eerily familiar.

  It was too big to perch on a child's arm. It circled, thwarted, until Whandall lifted his own left arm, hardly believing. The bird settled crushingly.